


Eyes Open

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [21]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8th April, 1904: When the Auld Alliance was forged, Scotland promised himself to France in many ways. The signing of the Entente Cordiale fails to stir the same feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Open

**8th April, 1904; London, England**  
  
  
Scotland runs a finger around the inside of his high, starched collar, attempting to loosen the choke-hold it has on his throat, if only for a moment. It doesn't work, but it's a minor annoyance compared to the greater ones of the day.  
  
The French delegation is late. Scotland suspects they have been delayed by their nation, who has no doubt taken the opportunity afforded by their relocation to one of the House's committee rooms to break off and find somewhere to primp and preen, readying himself for the official photograph scheduled to take place after the pointless formality of the signing ceremony.  
  
Because, really, what do their signatures mean nowadays? What power do they have? England's has maybe a little at a stretch, and only when he takes the name that is all of theirs by right as his own, but Scotland and Ireland's? Wales' signature hasn't meant a damn thing to anyone since the thirteenth century, the time he set quill to his own ‘Act of Union’ included.  
  
It's the continuation of a ceremony that stretches back many hundreds of years, if not thousands, but it's an empty one now; stripped of all meaning now that their approval is not required, only preferred. It's nothing more than tradition – slightly archaic, but comforting nonetheless for the illusion of added legitimacy it confers – and one which Scotland dislikes intensely, just as he dislikes any tradition which forces him to be trapped in a succession of dry, airless rooms listening to dry, lifeless speeches whilst being slowly strangled by his clothes.  
  
Normally, it's a tradition that England would undertake on his own – Scotland's willing to go to war for this country of theirs, but he's sure as hell not willing to glad hand and paper push unless forced by absolute necessity – but both of their bosses had insisted that all four of them turn out to put ink to paper.  
  
Earlier, some dignitary or other had jokingly suggested to Scotland that he must feel as though they were renewing the Auld Alliance. Scotland had nodded and laughed dutifully, even though the observation was so far wide of the mark as to be almost insulting. Back then, his king might have promised to defend France against the English, but what Scotland had promised to the nation himself, when they were alone, was to fight, and bleed, and die for him if he could find a way and France had a need of it. He had pledged his life because he was young, impetuous, and so deeply in love that it made him foolish.  
  
This is nothing like that. They may be recognising the warmer relationship that their countries have enjoyed since Waterloo, but it's not an alliance, and Scotland isn't going to be promising anything more than upholding the terms of the declarations they're ratifying. He hasn't spoken more than a few polite nothings to France for decades, so he very much doubts that this day will end as that one had, either, with wine-slick kisses, and later…  
  
He hooks a finger under his collar again, and pulls hard.  
  
"Having problems?" Ireland asks softly from his left. She covers his free hand with hers, fingers slipping neatly between his outstretched ones, which are pressed flat and hard against the smooth wood top of the conference table.  
  
"Fucking shirt's trying to throttle me," Scotland hisses back as he slips his hand free. He can feel that there's heat pooling in his cheeks, but hopes the resultant flush isn't too obvious.  
  
Ireland either doesn't notice, or, more likely, simply chooses not to comment on his blush. He'll have to make himself scarce after the ceremony's over, though, as she'll probably question him about it at length as soon as they're not surrounded on all sides by government ministers.  
  
"Yet you still look more comfortable than poor Wales," she says, inclining her head towards their brother, who's slumped gloomily in his seat between the Foreign Secretary and Lord Chancellor on the opposite side of the table.  
  
Wales' morning coat and trousers are new, bought specially for the occasion as he seldom has reason to don formal wear nowadays, and they have not yet had chance to settle to his frame. The fabric appears rigid and unyielding, slow to bend as he moves. He had flattened his hair down with excessive amounts of pomade earlier, until it sat sleek and glossy against his skull, but it has somehow managed to spring back into unruly curls over the course of the afternoon. Every so often, he reaches up stiffly and tries to pat them into place, his arms held tight against his side to avoid elbowing either of his neighbours in the face.  
  
That morning, noting that his brother's preparations were far more extensive than usual, Scotland had very briefly considered that perhaps he was trying to impress someone – some MP or other he wanted to shag, perhaps – but it seems unlikely, given that he's barely so much as made eye contact with anyone all day.  
  
"And both of you should be glad you don't have to wear a corset," Ireland finishes sharply.  
  
Despite the complaint, and her enthusiastic adoption of shirtwaists and tweed in recent years, Ireland looks elegant and comfortable in her floor length green silk and corsets both. Completely unruffled by the day's proceedings in comparison to Wales, and, no doubt, Scotland himself.  
  
Scotland snorts, loudly enough that it earns him a glare of disapprobation from the Foreign Secretary, accompanied by a fierce bristling of his thick beard which suggests a frown. "I doubt they make them in my size, _a ghrá_ ," he says.  
  
Ireland's lips curl wickedly. "Oh, I think you'd be surprised."

 

* * *

  
  
The Foreign Secretary bristles at France, too, when he finally reappears almost an hour later, but France ignores him.  
  
Just as he ignores the murmured greetings sent his way – courteous but not exactly warm; it has been a long wait, after all – as he makes a determined beeline for England at the head of the table. Their Prime Minister catches England's elbow when he quickly gets to his feet at the approach, and bends his head close to England's, whispering something that makes England's already dark scowl turn murderous.  
  
"What do you reckon he told him?" Scotland asks Ireland in an undertone.  
  
"That there's to be no kicking," she suggests, also sotto voce, "punching, or strangling. And definitely no hair pulling. He won't know what to do with himself."  
  
Although it looks as though the effort pains him greatly, England does restrain himself from launching an attack on France when the other nation comes to a halt in front of him. Instead, he holds his hand out stiffly, palm flat for what might well be the first time in their mutual acquaintance.  
  
France looks surprised by the gesture, but only for the briefest of moments, and the expression quickly gives way to a smirk that he directs at the outstretched hand being offered to him.  
  
" _Angleterre_ ," he says, and his tone is one that Scotland knows intimately. On the surface, it's amused, playful, but there's an undercurrent of cruelty to it. France is, Scotland suspects, about to do something that will make England extremely angry.  
  
Sure enough, when France's fingers glide across England's palm, they do not clasp his hand, but push on to close instead around his wrist. England freezes at the unexpected contact, mouth agape, and France takes advantage of his momentary shock to tug him closer. Close enough to firmly place a kiss on one of England's cheeks.  
  
England makes a high, thin noise like a kettle coming to the boil, and the sound propels Scotland out of his chair. Only Ireland's hand grasping his elbow stops him from going any further, and throwing himself bodily between his brother and France as is his immediate, instinctive reaction.  
  
"Calm down," Ireland says, voice tight. "He can take care of himself."  
  
Scotland isn't sure whether she means France or England, but, unfortunately, the significance of his body's unthinking response is all too clear to _him_ , at least. The last, ailing remnant of his protective urge towards England had died some time in the thirteenth century, crushed beneath the flat of his little brother's blade. Despite the distance and determined neglect, despite Brihuega, Malplaquet, Fontenoy, Lauffeld, and fucking _Napoleon_ , he cannot say the same about France.  
  
His feelings are hardly a revelation. In fact, he's long resigned himself to the knowledge that he will likely never be rid of them and the struggle to make his peace with that, but this is the first time his control has slipped sufficiently to reveal their existence to anyone else. He's pressed the point of a bayonet against France's throat and levelled a fucking rifle at his head more times than he cares to count, but it appears he needs the tempering heat of battle to strengthen his composure if all it takes is the simple threat of England perhaps punching France for being, well, _France_ to break without it.  
  
"No one else has noticed." Ireland's smile is both sympathetic and, chillingly, very knowing. Never mind today, Scotland's going to have to avoid her for _months_ if he wants to keep his dignity anywhere close to intact. "And they won't as long as you sit down, shut up, and pretend it's not happening like everyone else is."  
  
The assembled politicians, diplomats, and ambassadors do appear to have found themselves suddenly fascinated by their hands, the ceiling, or simply some undefined point in the room that isn't England or France. Even Wales' eyes are downcast, although he is chewing pensively on the side of his thumb, no doubt contemplating pitching himself into the fight if it comes to that. He will, of course, side with England, something which had angered Scotland for centuries until he finally realised that it wasn't that Wales’ sympathies always lay with their brother, just that his over-developed sense of fairness compelled him to stand up for England because it was very rare that anyone else would.  
  
Whatever the Prime Minister had said to England seems to have had a profound effect on his reactions, however, because he doesn't punch France; doesn't even attempt to push him away when France persists in standing far too close after kissing him, grinning victoriously. He simply takes a measured step backwards and says in a surprisingly level voice, "Are we going to sign this bloody paper or not, then."  
  
The collective sense of relief is palpable.

 

* * *

  
  
In spite of his best efforts, Scotland finds himself next to France as they wait for their photograph to be taken.  
  
Normally, he ends up having to stand in the back row of such shots anyway because of his height, and he'd hung back deliberately as they all filed out into New Palace Yard to make doubly sure that was the case, only to discover once he eventually did get outside that there was a row of chairs set out, intended specifically for the nations' use. Upon that discovery, he'd tried to seat himself between Ireland and Wales, but the photographer had chivvied him into moving with his repeated complaints about Scotland ruining the 'contrast' and 'composition' of his photographs, and generally making Scotland feel as though he would be destroying the century's greatest artistic endeavour if he were to stay where he was.  
  
France had, as per Scotland's earlier suspicions, changed his outfit during his long absence between the reading of the declarations and their signing, attiring himself in a far more sharply tailored suit than the sombre one he'd arrived in, along with a richly brocaded waistcoat shimmering with gold thread and buttons. He'd swept his hair into a ponytail, too, secured at the base of his skull with a twist of red, white and blue ribbons that are doubtless intended to bring to mind the colours of both of their flags, although it's an association only those assembled will ever recognise as this moment will forever be memorialised solely in sepia tones.  
  
Scotland has always appreciated the way the line of France's jaw and his neck are accentuated on the infrequent occasions he ties his hair back, and the one advantage of France's complete disregard of his presence in favour of needling an increasingly rubicund – but still surprisingly polite – England is that he can admire both more openly than he would otherwise dare whilst his head is turned.  
  
For far too many years after their relationship ended, it had hurt just as much as the first time when France snubbed him, and, consequently, it had been far too easy to allow himself tumble back into bed with the other nation whenever he did deign to acknowledge his existence, thinking it a salve. It had taken him even longer to realise – with Jersey's help; he doubts he would have ever have reached such a conclusion on his own – that all he was doing was making it more difficult for those old wounds to heal; re-opening them time and again when what he should be doing was letting them harden and then learning to live with the scars.  
  
A century on, he can now admire France at a remove and keep on breathing through the ache of it.

 

* * *

  
  
The formalisation of the 'entente cordiale' wasn't entirely secret, but neither was it common knowledge. Their bosses wanted it to remain that way, and thus there was no state banquet arranged, no parades or parties, only brandy and cigars at England's house for anyone who cared to partake of them. A subdued gathering considering the momentous events of the day, but preferable nevertheless, the Prime Minister had informed them, to letting them pass entirely uncelebrated.  
  
Scotland finds it too boisterous for his present frame of mind, which is much more inclined towards taking himself early to bed, and drinking from his private stash of whisky until he passes out, however. Not caring about France ignoring him is easier than it used to be, but it's draining, nonetheless. Adding avoiding Ireland, talking politics, and pretending not to notice that France has had a very uncomfortable looking Wales cornered in the drawing room for the past half-hour to that has exhausted what little reserves of energy Scotland had left.  
  
As England appears to have a sixth sense about such things, and no tolerance for desertion, Scotland knows he can't escape upstairs no matter how much he might wish to. He does, however, have a key to the parlour – hastily copied the one time England had been sloppy about its hiding place – somewhere his brother believes is secure enough that he would never think to check it once he realises Scotland has disappeared.  
  
It's always chilly in the parlour, and slightly musty because England guards it so jealously that it very rarely gets aired, but Scotland can't risk setting a fire in the grate. The cold doesn't bother him half so much as his siblings because he's used to far worse, so he's still bound to be far more comfortable inside than he would ever be anywhere else in the house at the moment.  
  
The liberal application of alcohol will help warm him up, anyway, and the parlour's sole recommendation to Scotland's mind, other than its merits as an occasional bolt hole from England and other such unpalatable social obligations, is that it contains his brother's drinks cabinet.  
  
He's helping himself to a healthy measure of rum when he hears the door opening behind him, and he spins around quickly, taking care to keep the decanter hidden behind his back even though he knows a little pilfered spirits will be the least of England's concerns.  
  
The newcomer isn't England, however; it's France. "I was going to ask why _Angleterre_ always keeps this room locked up," he says, eyes fixed aghast on one of England's appalling paintings of a rectangular cow, "but now I don't think I need to."  
  
Scotland can sympathise with his horror, but he winces at the volume at which it's expressed.  
  
"Aye, they are fucking awful, but you'll either have to get in here and bear the full brunt of them, or get out," he says, pitching his voice low and hoping it'll encourage France to do the same. "Just don't stand there gawping in the bloody doorway. If England catches us here he'll have both of our guts for garters."  
  
Scotland would have expected that to be an obvious cue for France to move on, but, to his surprise, the other nation steps all the way into the parlour and then shuts the door softly behind him. His gaze glances quickly over Scotland before coming to rest on the collection of gimlet-eyed Staffordshire spaniels on the dresser to the left of the fireplace. His expression of horrified fascination returns.  
  
"I wouldn't if I were you," Scotland warns him. "England can tell if they're even an inch out of place. He's got this whole room mapped down to the last detail."  
  
"And yet here you are, drinking his…?"  
  
"Rum," Scotland says, holding the decanter aloft. "Well, he drinks enough of it himself that he can never remember how much he's got left. He won't notice."  
  
France smiles faintly, but doesn't ask for a glass, and Scotland doesn't offer one. France has never been fond of spirits, and rum less so than most.  
  
Scotland leans one hip against the edge of the cabinet, sips from his own glass, and wishes he'd told France to piss off rather than given him the choice of staying. He can't think of a single thing to say; by his own design as much as France's indifference, the other nation's almost a stranger to him nowadays.  
  
"One of your politicians asked me this morning if you and I felt like the Auld Alliance had been born anew," France says eventually. His tone is off-hand, his attention seemingly almost completely absorbed by the pottery dogs once more.  
  
Someone's extremely invested in that particular idea, it appears. Scotland downs the rest of his rum, and carefully places his empty glass down on a nearby occasional table before replying, "It certainly doesn't to me. And you?"  
  
He hopes, prays, that France's answer is the same. He can be resolute in their silence, but he's never been sure he could be as strong as he needs to be if he were ever to receive even the tiniest scrap of encouragement.  
  
Thankfully, France doesn't even look at him, and simply shakes his head.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The 'Declaration between the United Kingdom and France Respecting Egypt and Morocco' was signed between those two countries in London on the 8th of April, along with two other declarations. It was part of the series of agreements now collectively known as the Entente Cordiale, designed to settle areas of dispute over colonial influence and trading, and also mark the formalisation of the friendship that had been growing between the UK and France.
> 
> \- Brihuega, Malplaquet, Fontenoy, and Lauffeld were all battles (which the British lost to the French and their allies) fought in either the War of Spanish Succession or the War of Austrian Succession.


End file.
